


Cradles and Storms; part one

by NavyGreen



Series: Dwarven-Kings and Green Valleys [3]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Baby Frodo, Between The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings, Fluff, M/M, Post-Hobbit, Protective Bilbo Baggins, Protective Thorin, Thorin Lives in the Shire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:00:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23293630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NavyGreen/pseuds/NavyGreen
Summary: Thorin had never expected to become a parent-figure again.But that changes when Bilbo returns to Bag End on a stormy night with a swathed, baby-sized bundle in his arms.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins & Frodo Baggins & Thorin Oakenshield, Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Series: Dwarven-Kings and Green Valleys [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1675180
Comments: 6
Kudos: 275





	Cradles and Storms; part one

Dwarves had never been a populous race.

Rather, Dwarves had found their carved cradles empty, more often than not. Schools remained small, and shops that sold the woven clothes more fitting for a baby or child were few.

However, all this had meant Dwarven children were all the more _treasured_.

Above leading his people, above bringing hope to the Dwarves of Erebor and even reclaiming their home, Thorin’s highest moment of pride and happiness had – first – been the birth of Fili.

Both Thorin and his sister had cried over the small bundle, touched his feather-soft, blond curls, and kissed his puffed cheeks. They had sat by his crib, sung him songs and whispered stories of Durin and Aule.

Leaving his sister and her small, barely-talking son had almost torn Thorin’s softened heart in two. But it had to be done – even though Ered Luin had given the Dwarves shelter, its blue stone could not bless them coin or food. And even Dwarves could not eat rock.

The following years had weighed heavily upon the Dwarf. Men did not appreciate Dwarves, and in turn Thorin did not appreciate Men. They knew nothing of the world and his suffering.

But upon returning to his Halls, Fili’s newborn brother, Kili, had made it all worth it.

Thorin had watched them grow, had protected them and soothed their hurts when he had failed. He had guided their first crafts, had protected them on the Quest, laid by them after Ravenhill.

They were grown, now. And Thorin had never expected to take the role of Uncle again.

But here Bilbo stood, framed by the curved walls of Bag End, cradling a swathed, squealing bundle.

* * *

“Bilbo,” Thorin muttered. Orcrist’s hilt was cool against his fingers, and though it did not glow that had not hindered the panic that swelled through the Dwarf’s blood when he’d heard the frantic knocking on Bag End’s round door.

Passed the open doorway, rain fell upon the ground in heavy waves. Thick streams trickled down Bag End’s front stairs and pooled along the cobblestone of Bag Shot Row. Vicious winds wept at the trees and shrubs, sending a scattering of leaves into the air to end only Eru knew where.

Large droplets were landing on the hallway’s floor in darkening spots. Distantly, Thorin thanked his intuition for closing all of Bag End’s windows.

Bilbo closed the door and flicked the lock, hiding the view of the storm from Thorin’s sight.

“Bilbo,” the Dwarf said again.

The Hobbit glanced at him. His yellow waistcoat was dark with moisture, despite the protective layer of his raincoat. He held the bundle closer.

“His parents-” he began, but his voice cracked like a ceramic plate and he cast his eyes downward.

And in an instant, Thorin understood.

“Oh, _Bilbo_.”

The Dwarf stepped forward, setting Orcrist on a wooden drawer. His arm slid around Bilbo’s back, and he pressed a kiss into the Hobbit’s wet curls.

“His parents-” Bilbo tried again. “-the river- no one would take him-”

Thorin felt a sharp wave of something unwelcomely familiar rise from his toes. It only made him hold his Hobbit tighter.

Below him, the small, reddened features of a baby Hobbit scrunched. Dark brows pulled downwards against soft blue eyes. One hand – _oh so tiny, Aule be told_ –reached out, its stout fingers wiggling. Bilbo took it – protected it – in his larger hand and pressed a kiss to the baby’s puffed cheek. The baby, surprisingly, had remained dry despite the miserable weather.

“Cousins?” Thorin questioned softly. He knew Hobbit families were extensive and often overlapping – though Bilbo had never mentioned much of his own family beside the line drawn between the Baggins and the Sackville-Bagginses.

Bilbo shook his head softly, rolling his shoulders to be rid of his wet coat. Thorin helped him, and upon no verbal answer to his question, the Dwarf held his tongue. The Hobbit would tell him what he needed to know – and Thorin trusted him to do so.

Instead, he asked, “His name?”

Now rid of his coat, Bilbo walked down the curved halls of Bag End. “Frodo,” he replied over his shoulder.

Thorin followed him, frowning slightly as they passed the main bedroom they shared. Instead, Bilbo opened a door Thorin had noticed but never brought to attention; Bag End was too full of rooms and doors to question every one.

Bilbo opened this particular door, and it opened with a low creak. The baby – _Frodo_ – squirmed at the noise, but did not fuss.

Thorin found no words on his tongue to fill the silence as the Hobbit lit a singular candle. Instead, the Dwarf took in the unfamiliar room. There was a slight layer of dust settled on the floor. The window, too, looked as though it had not been disturbed in many a year. Drawers had been pushed against the walls to frame the room’s centrepiece – a cradle.

Thorin, despite his time in the Shire, was still unfamiliar with the seemingly unlimited types of wood found in its fertile fields and beyond. But this wood he recognised. Fili’s own cradle had been carved from the white, soft wood of birch, too.

Bilbo rummaged through drawers, shielding Frodo from the puffs of dust that emanated from his searching.

A jolt struct through Thorin. Hobbits – Thorin was _almost_ completely sure – were not crafted and sculpted from stone. They were not resistant to allergies – seen through Bilbo’s hayfever – or diseases – like Bilbo’s flu the previous season. And Frodo – he was so _small!_ So soft and plump and susceptible!

“Let me hold him,” Thorin said suddenly.

Bilbo glanced back at him, and it was only through the Dwarf’s dark vision that he observed the battle happening within. But it was short-lived.

The Hobbit held Frodo out, and Thorin took him, cradled him, as gently as the fragile, little treasure deserved.

Soft blue eyes – like lapis, or sapphire, Thorin thought – stared up at him. Long dark lashes mixed with the thick curls of dark hair that reached his brow. A small, button-like nose wiggled as the boy shifted in his wrappings.

Thorin felt like he was barely a century old again, unprepared for the weight of responsibly set upon him. _Aule give me strength, and I will do the task you have prescribed me_ , he thought, pausing for a brief moment before adding, _and Yavanna, bless me strength, too_.

Thorin did not know how long he’d watched little Frodo, carving every hair and movement into the stone of his memory. He listened to his breathing, pet his dark curls, and brushed a thick finger against his rounded cheek. He could’ve stayed there forever, like stone figures, and Thorin wouldn’t have minded one bit.

But Bilbo roused him from the spell by closing a particularly stubborn drawer with a loud knock. Thorin tore his eyes up, ready to tuck the baby against his breast and fight with his fist – since he’d left Orcrist in the hallway. _Never again_ , he thought.

But instead of a cloaked attacker, or screaming Orc, Thorin found only Bilbo, now burdened with blankets and baby clothes. He slipped passed Thorin and headed for the door into the hallway.

“The cradle?” Thorin murmured. He could’ve handed Frodo over and carried it himself – but Bilbo’s arms were full and Thorin wasn’t sure he could let go of the boy if he tried.

The Hobbit shook his head and swallowed. “It’s broken- I’ll order a new one tomorrow.”

Thorin glanced back at the cradle, and although the candle had been blown out, he could see the cracked wood and missing sections of sides. The Dwarf would’ve guessed something had hit it with a great force – like a hammer. Or a fist.

Thorin opened his mouth to ask but a small sneeze escaped the now squirming body in his arms.

Bilbo held the door open with his heel and tilted his head towards the hallway. His eyes were dark, heavy, but his voice still held its familiar mirth. “Quickly, Thorin, before the poor thing sneezes to death.”

Thorin had never fled from a room so quickly in his life.

* * *

Frodo lay on the bed, protected from rolling off the sheer sides by the pillows set around him. His lashes lay against his pale cheeks, and his chest rose at a steady pace.

Bilbo had long before been stolen away by sleep, though Thorin recognised the tension of an unsteady mind. The Hobbit had been much the same during the Quest – if he could sleep at all. He laid on his side, cheek rested upon one of the pillow’s securing Frodo. Sleep had found him before he’d been able to dress into more fitting bedclothes.

But not quick enough to prevent the Hobbit from finding Sting and setting upon the bedside drawer.

Despite the hour, Thorin, unlike his Hobbit, could not find sleep.

Instead, the Dwarf sat on the end of the bed, stern eyes darting between the window, the door, and Frodo. Locked, closed, and sleeping.

The room would be silent if not for the slow breathes of its three occupants. Pine – always pine – permeated the room in soft waves. It would have lulled Thorin to sleep if not for the incessant, uneasy feeling low in his stomach

He’d recognised it immediately, despite its brief fading from his life. It had been his invisible companion since the birth of his nephews – before, even. However, it had not reappeared – at least not in similar intensity – since Thorin was forced to leave them at Erebor.

His boys had become adults – they had fought through suffering and tribulations, had won against battle injuries and disease. And their victory had been their reclaimed home – safety, and security. Erebor would keep them safe within her carven walls until Thorin’s ever-searching eyes could find them again. She would house and feed them, watch them grow and protect them from all harm.

Frodo, however…

Treasures were safe within stone. But one could dig dirt, pull out such treasures and rub them raw.

And that would _not_ do.

It had ached to have Frodo leave his sight, but Bag End’s letter-writing material lay in the study’s drawers, not the bedroom. And Thorin had much to write.

Bofur and Bifur would be ecstatic to whittle some toys for the Hobbit boy, and Ori would delight in sending over some stories (one of which, Thorin hoped, would be the Quest). Bombur would know of recipes to strengthen a baby, and Dori would no doubt send over piles of clothes. Dis, Thorin knew, would jump with glee upon learning of the expanding Bag End family.

By next Winter, the Dwarf estimated as he sat at Bilbo’s desk, Bag End should be overloaded with all things to raise a Hobbit child, crafted from loving, Dwarven hands.

But the cradle – no. That would be Thorin’s own gift.


End file.
